


The Belts

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4633002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s belt night at Sherlock’s house! Only this time, he wants to show the resulting marks to someone else later. Which seems a little ominous to slave John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Belts

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“Strip and lie face down on the bed,” Sherlock ordered, heading to his chest of drawers.

“Just routine, then?” John remarked dryly, pulling his shirt off over his head.

“If you feel my instructions are redundant, I can dispense with them,” Sherlock replied. John couldn’t tell if he was irritated or not; he seemed preoccupied digging through a drawer of different belts and chucking them onto the floor, with no rhyme or reason John could discern. Somehow he did not think the drawer of belts indicated Sherlock’s fashion sense.

“So where’ve you been?” John asked idly, lying naked on his stomach on Sherlock’s bed, trying to be comfortable with it. “I haven’t seen you for a couple days. Molly thought you’d left the compound.”

“Correct,” Sherlock informed him. Now he was definitely choosing some belts and discarding the others. “I just returned.”

“And you sent for _me_ ,” John finished, in a voice of fake delight. “That’s so _sweet_.” This finally got Sherlock’s attention and he gazed at John with a frown. “That’s so sweet, _sir_?” John corrected innocently, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I see you’ve been working below your capacity in the Infirmary for the last two days,” he deduced, gathering up a handful of belts. “You become very cheeky with inadequate discipline levels.”

“I do think that is my problem,” John deadpanned. Boredom was very demoralizing for someone who had grown accustomed to action. And Sherlock might be crazy, but at least he was never dull.

John propped his head up on his fist. “So what’ve we got, then? Belt night, is it?”

“I will be striking you six times, once with each belt,” Sherlock explained matter-of-factly, putting masking tape labels on each chosen item. “Then we can have sex, if you want, and if you haven’t irritated me too much.”

John smirked. “Alright then.”

Sherlock began examining John’s back for any new marks that had appeared recently, which might interfere with his experiment. “You never said where you went,” John prompted, taking his chances.

“How brilliant you are, John,” Sherlock replied flatly, pinching him.

“Ow!”

“Stray hair,” Sherlock claimed, flicking or pretending to flick something to the floor. He stood up for the final survey and John turned his head away and tried to relax.

“Hmm,” Sherlock said suddenly, which was odd, and John turned back to him. He seemed to be hesitating about something, which was unusual for Sherlock, and frankly somewhat alarming.

“What?”

“I may want to show the marks to someone else,” Sherlock finally said, as if he wasn’t sure if this was relevant.

John found it slightly so. “A fellow hobbyist?” he guessed. “Am I to be for Show-and-Tell?”

“ _Who_ is immaterial, John,” Sherlock dismissed. “Does it raise any other concerns for you?”

The question surprised John, so he gave it some thought. “Well, if I’m going to be shown off to people, could you keep it above the waist, so I don’t have to take my trousers off?” he requested.

He was glad he had, because Sherlock obviously hadn’t considered that. “If you like,” he agreed. He disappeared into the bathroom and came out with a thick towel, which he draped protectively over John’s rear end. This seemed to entail a lot of adjustment and consideration of the widths of the belts and the height of John’s waistband.

“Like an evil tailor,” John muttered.

Suddenly he felt Sherlock’s fingers on the back of his neck and he tensed, fearing a change of temper; but Sherlock merely stroked the sensitive skin, his touch light until John was arching into it for more contact, futilely of course since Sherlock pulled his hand away. “Like an evil tailor, _sir_ ,” Sherlock corrected him, with no hint of humor, and John could only nod in response, trying to calm his body down in preparation for the experiment.

Belt number one came down like fire across his lower back. Part of him wished it had been even lower, and not quite so painful; but he didn’t know what Sherlock had in mind for the entertainment portion of the evening.

“Number three,” Sherlock announced clinically.

“Hang on,” John said, and Sherlock did. “What happened to two?”

“You missed it,” Sherlock informed him. “You were daydreaming. Fantasizing, really.” He did not miss three. “It’s poor form, John.”

“Sometimes you tell me to _think_ less,” John pointed out.

“Yes.” Number four.

“I don’t equate daydreaming with thinking.”

“Oh, I see.” Number five. “Adjust your mindset to equate them from now on.”

John did not answer, because he didn’t want to move the pillow Sherlock had carefully placed over his head and neck. He felt number six come down across the top of his shoulder blades and relaxed, knowing it was the last one.

Sherlock whisked away the pillow and the towel and did a post-experiment assessment of his work. “Don’t have these treated,” he reminded John. “I’ll send for you tomorrow to see how they’ve developed.”

“I know.” He kept his head turned away from Sherlock, eyes closed, listening to the thumps and rustles that indicated he was getting undressed. It had not taken long to train John’s body to anticipate this; he had not really been into pain before, but now sometimes the flash of a bamboo stake or a ruler or a wooden spoon made his heart pound. Apparently Molly had the same problem, and once told him a funny but embarrassing story of the one and only time she’d gone to the stables and spotted a riding crop. Just the thought gave John a little shiver.

The mattress dipped as Sherlock joined him. “Shh, you’re alright,” he said in a soothing tone, stroking John’s head, his cheek, the back of his neck. His fingers danced along John’s arm. “You did such a good job. You’re alright now.”

It was enjoyable, so it didn’t register with John at first how strange this was. Then he opened his eyes to stare at Sherlock. “What are you doing?”

“You appeared to require comfort,” Sherlock replied, the formal words at odd with his tone.

John grinned. “Actually it didn’t hurt that much,” he admitted, “though I appreciate the gesture.”

Sherlock frowned and drew back. “Molly requires soothing after each experiment to produce a state of calm,” he noted.

“Oh. Well, people get me and Molly mixed up all the time,” John claimed lightly.

Sherlock was still unconvinced. “You gave an involuntary muscular twitch, and you distanced yourself from me by keeping your head turned away and remaining silent,” he pointed out. “This doesn’t indicate you require comfort?”

“No, it indicates I’m getting turned on and waiting for you to get on with it,” John spelled out bluntly, daring to reach for Sherlock just as the other man rolled onto his back to give this matter the thought it apparently deserved.

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm.” John scooted closer and nuzzled Sherlock’s shoulder. “Thought it was a bit obvious myself.”

“Oh, well, I lack empathy,” Sherlock shrugged, and turned over to capture John’s lips with his own. This distracted John for a few moments, but something tugged at the back of his mind.

“You lack empathy?” John repeated, when he could. This seemed like an important admission.

Sherlock did not think so and pulled back with annoyance. “You are being very contradictory tonight, John,” he warned.

“Sorry. I just—Yes, that does seem to explain things,” he decided. Sherlock might choose to go through the motions of comforting Molly to calm her, even though he didn’t really understand why they were necessary—he just did what produced the desired outcome for him. “Like training a dog,” he added cheekily. “Sir.”

“My desired outcome is you participating in sex with fewer irrelevant comments,” Sherlock replied, slightly peevish. “What is your suggestion for producing this? And please keep in mind physical punishments are encouraged here.”

John grinned. “I’ll behave,” he promised, and let Sherlock resume kissing him.

“You’re thinking again, John,” Sherlock accused a moment later, trailing his lips down John’s throat. “Are you trying to train me to be irritated at you? It’s working.”

“No. Sorry.” But now that John had started, he couldn’t stop. “You said, we could have sex _if_ I wanted to,” he reminded Sherlock.

Perhaps predictably, though disappointingly, Sherlock pulled back immediately. “Are you saying you wish to stop?” he checked.

“No,” John assured him heartily. “Well, but if I said _yes_ , you would?”

Sherlock rested his forehead on John’s shoulder, frustration thrumming off him, and John felt a little bad and reached around to massage his shoulders. The irony of feeling bad for someone like Sherlock was not lost on him. “I’m sorry I’m being confusing,” John said, kissing his temple. “I got used to thinking again while I was being underused in the Infirmary. D’you want to know what I thought about?”

“It’s difficult to imagine I would care.”

John went on anyway. “This whole sex slave thing.” He paused and Sherlock didn’t object to the topic. “Really not so bad,” he judged. “From the descriptions I thought it was going to be a lot worse.”

Sherlock leaned back slightly, his arms still loosely around John. His expression was serious, but then it often was. “What do you mean?” He seemed certain John had the wrong idea about something.

John went back to massaging his arm—the belting arm, he might appreciate that. “Well, this is a nice place—food, my own room, clothes, health care,” he pointed out. “I mean, alright, this mad bloke likes to hit me with things, but not very hard, and then he _asks_ if I want to have sex. I just thought things would be… worse,” he repeated. Maybe now was not really the time to dwell on this.

Sherlock looked at him soberly for a long moment. “You’ve never had sex with anyone but _me_ since becoming a slave,” he stated with certainty.

“Molly,” John corrected, but clearly she didn’t count.

“No other _free_ person,” Sherlock clarified. “No one who was your master. You were in prison and injured, then when Mycroft bought you, you were assigned to the Infirmary.”

“Short chap with a limp versus Garden Girls,” John suggested self-deprecatingly, trying to lighten the mood. “Not much comparison, is there?”

“You don’t have a true basis for comparison,” Sherlock said sharply. “It alarms me, John. Someone else could call for you tomorrow and you would find out rather quickly that many things _you_ happen to like are just _my_ personal preferences. It’s certainly not a rule that slaves can’t be taken against their will. Ask Molly.”

He said this in an ominous, even angry way. “Molly doesn’t like to talk about bad things,” John pointed out tentatively. “Look, I’m sorry I brought it up, I didn’t mean to upset you, I was just trying to say I appreciated your consideration—“ What with Sherlock’s violent hobbies people would probably be surprised he kept to such decent rules.

“It’s not consideration for _you_ ,” Sherlock countered. “Why should I trouble myself to force someone to have sex with me? I find mutual participation pleasurable. Not everyone does.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” John said again, running his hands through Sherlock’s hair. He didn’t know why _he_ was trying to comfort Sherlock, when they were talking about the possibility of _John_ getting raped.

“You just frequently force me to lower my estimate of your intelligence and social savvy, John,” Sherlock complained. “Do you even realize how your non-subservient attitude could anger other people? There’s virtually no repercussions for people who abuse slaves, John. I should know, I’ve been doing it all my life—“

John actually hugged him. Sherlock went silent, probably with shock. “I know, I don’t have the right attitude, I’m sorry.” He ran his hand up and down Sherlock’s spine. “I’ll stop making irrelevant comments.” For the moment, anyway, he didn’t think he could promise forever.

After a moment he felt Sherlock sigh and relax. “You’re very difficult to understand sometimes, John,” he admitted.

“I know. I baffle myself, too, sometimes.” Like now, for instance. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Well that’s the point, isn’t it, John?” Sherlock said. “I don’t really care what you do, except when it interferes with what _I_ want.”

John was not sure if he really believed this. Maybe he just didn’t want to. Maybe he just appreciated Sherlock’s honesty, when so many other people obscured the truth, or thought he wasn’t worthy of it.

“So… there was talk of having sex earlier,” he said innocently. “I would like to do that.”

“Only if you _cease talking_ ,” Sherlock ordered. “I don’t want to hear anything more from you but inarticulate syllables.”

“Mmm,” John replied. He could go with that.

**

The next day John was summoned to meet Sherlock in the atrium and found him sitting at a café table next to an enormous fountain John had failed to notice before. “What is _that_?” he couldn’t help asking, tilting his head back to look up at it. “Poseidon, with a trident, using two dolphins as water skis with a skanky mermaid wrapped around his leg?”

Sherlock looked up from his phone and regarded the fountain, which he was clearly used to. “That’s my great-great-grandfather, Balthazar Holmes,” he replied matter-of-factly. “He was a sailor of some renown.”

John nodded slowly. “Hence being depicted as Poseidon,” he supposed, hoping Sherlock had not been offended by his description. It didn’t seem like something Sherlock would get offended about, but with him you never knew.

“The skanky mermaid is my great-great-grandmother, Phyllida.”

“Very buxom,” John said seriously, trying to be complimentary.

“You haven’t had your injuries treated, have you, John?” Sherlock checked, getting back to business as they walked through the warm, humid atrium. He thrust a bag at John to be carried.

“No, untouched,” John promised. “They aren’t really that bad. Who are you going to show them to?” he wanted to know.

“Really not any of your business, John,” Sherlock replied, seemingly serious, as he led the way to an office on the side of the atrium. It was a rather drab, professional place compared to the lush vegetation and water features of the atrium; apparently they concerned themselves with missing umbrellas and lost phones, from what John could tell. After a few turns they reached a door that Sherlock opened without knocking, startling a man who was working at a desk. The man rolled his eyes, as if he was used to this kind of thing, and Sherlock strode in and sat down in a chair as if he owned the place (which, in some sense, he did).

John took the other chair before the desk, smiling and making eye contact with the man. He wore a rumpled suit and was handsome in a laddish sort of way, his temples slightly silvered. His eyes darted to Sherlock. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“John,” John introduced, reaching out to shake his hand. The man took it automatically.

“My assistant,” Sherlock claimed, with smug amusement.

The man relaxed slightly. “Assistant, huh? Might want to rethink that career choice, John,” he suggested, exasperated but not intolerant. “Trouble this bloke gets into? Not worth the paycheck.”

John smiled a little. “I agree,” he said dryly. Considering he got paid _nothing_.

“Greg Lestrade, Security Chief for the compound,” Sherlock identified perfunctorily. John thought maybe he’d seen him from afar once or twice. Should he be alarmed the Security Chief was apparently into comparing wounds—on other people—with Sherlock? “You asked for my help,” Sherlock reminded him cryptically, and Greg looked as though it pained him to admit it.

“Yes, I did. What’ve you got?”

Sherlock indicated the bag, which John set on Greg’s desk. It turned out to contain the belts he’d used on John the night before, and the tips of John’s ears turned pink as he recalled what went along with them. Sherlock of course noticed and seemed amused. “I tested those items. I think you’re looking for number three, but let’s check the progress, shall we?”

John took that as his cue, standing and pulling his shirt off, then turning his back to them. Sherlock grabbed his hip and pulled him closer to the desk, leaning in for a better look. “Yes, number three, the pattern of—“

“J---s C----t, Sherlock,” Greg interrupted, his voice tense. John took it as a welcome sign of humanity that he was upset about Sherlock using him as a whipping boy, though it would probably make Sherlock defensive and irritable. “Is he a slave?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed with glee. “Fooled you, didn’t he? He’s not very subservient.”

“And that’s going to get him flogged if he pulls it on his own,” Greg warned. John suddenly started to think that maybe the man wasn’t terribly concerned about his well-being after all.

“I do my own flogging, as you can see,” Sherlock noted. “Relax, John,” he added patronizingly, squeezing his hip. “ _I_ told you to do it, you’re not going to get in trouble.”

“It’s more what you _didn’t_ tell me,” John countered. Of course he was aware that as a slave a certain obedience was required, but he wasn’t yet clear on all the nuances of this society. Handshaking was out, apparently.

“What’s his number?” Greg asked.

“John-221,” John answered for himself—not defiantly, he actually wasn’t sure if Sherlock even knew it.

“Are you done with your pointless questions, Greg?” Sherlock needled. “Did you want my help or not?”

Greg sighed and pulled something out of his desk, from the sound of it—a folder of papers, maybe. Sherlock’s hand inched about John’s hip to touch bare skin, and then his long fingers dipped beneath John’s waistband, presumably where Greg couldn’t see. “Quit _squirming_ , John,” he had the audacity to complain. John took some deep, steady breaths.

“You made a proper appointment with him and everything, I assume?” Greg asked.

“I do _everything_ properly, Greg,” Sherlock claimed. His fingers turned and pressed nails into tender flesh; John’s toes curled with the effort of staying still. “Look at the cross-hatching. Slightly wider here, but very similar.”

“Yeah, and the circles are spread out more,” Greg agreed. “Larger size?”

“Only by a couple of inches,” Sherlock judged. John could not, and did not, want to imagine what they were up to. It was difficult to focus anyway, as Sherlock’s fingers alternatively stabbed and soothed him. He’d been requested for the whole afternoon, so hopefully when they left here they could go back to Sherlock’s suite and—And just when had sex become such an obsession, especially with someone who was clearly a few marbles short of a bag? Or maybe that was _him_ now, John thought, desperately biting his lip in an attempt to keep silent as he caught a whiff of leather.

“…thinks too much,” Sherlock was saying disdainfully. “Tried to tell me daydreaming wasn’t the same as thinking.”

“Yes, I’m sure you two have very philosophical conversations,” Greg replied dryly. “While you’re beating him with things.” There was, at least, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“John likes it,” Sherlock claimed. “Like Molly. The things he’s imagining us doing right now would turn your stomach.”

“Oi!” John protested, turning to glare at Sherlock. The other man merely raised an eyebrow challengingly. “I am not that twisted. And neither is Molly,” he felt compelled to add defensively.

“Crush,” Sherlock explained to Greg dismissively.

“How convenient for you,” Greg responded with sarcasm. “Alright, you convinced me,” he went on. “Thanks for your assistance. Next time, could you just theorize, instead of beating a live human?” This made John feel better about him—he was concerned, at least.

“Probably not,” Sherlock shot back. “Theories need testing. Put your shirt back on, John.” He did so and started to follow Sherlock out the door.

“John-221,” Greg said suddenly, and John looked back over his shoulder at him questioningly. “Just taking note.” And wasn’t _that_ a little ominous. John sighed and caught up with Sherlock—if there was one thing he knew from the Army, it was _not_ to get yourself on Security’s radar.


End file.
